The slums weren't so bad after all.
The images of rough-sculpted glass giants beaming with neon lights had the boy's brain oftentimes screaming for solace in the form of some momentary recluse. Klaxons shouted, people beeped, worries weighed heavy. Out there, the Union dogs roamed free and played the city by whatever rules Duflot made up – out there, Andy played a faceless delivery boy for a faceless delivery company with a faceless anthill of cargo that needed to be delivered to a faceless mass of customers and handlers alike. Lacking in faces. Lacked tact and manners, too. People lacked proper etiquette in the outer shell of Lungmen, but funnily enough, it was the brutish slums that have proved much different.
"Please." The old man graced Lizzy with a helping hand, when passing a fence torn apart by his cane. His withered claws stilled the steel net in place, allowing the rest to waddle on through.
"And thank you." She beamed bright back, with a smile radiant enough to light even the dead-est of night aflame. Croissant and Andy dragged on behind, one holding up the other. It was a procedure that required often turn-switching and shoulder bumping to keep the soul awake – and walking. Tumbling forward, in their case. Mind-arts-fibers still ran their course through Pacific Empire's ranks, numbing the brains and lowering morale. Like a groggy Monday morning, spent licking the floor clean off a hangover - wasn't pretty.
"... Thanks."
One mumbled to the other. It could've been Andy, it could've been Croissant. Their shared conscience had reached a somewhat subliminal height at this point, melting their minds together. Trawling through the higher slums came as a perpetually shared motion, teeming with numb acceptance, led by the tapping of a heavy cane. They were moving, fine. Croissant looked at Andy, and there were no graceful mannerisms in her eyes. Are you moving? He was moving. Are you? She was moving, too. Sluggishly, but forward. It was important to keep moving forward. Slow, sure. But forward. Croissant for once was glad he understood the simple task.
Shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest, arm to arm, hand in hand. Two soldiers bound by skin, thoughts, and feelings, marching onward to the Grand Acceptance beyond the veil of grim whatever. The words sparked no thoughts.
Andy liked having Croissant by his side. That's what a part of his brain had told him, then and there. Another one crumpled the thought into a neat paper ball and flung it into a crimson flame's burning heart. A red heart. Red, red like her. The other her.
"There are lots of things to fix and change, yes. I'm not one to worry about the outer world, however– mostly. All the ins and outs of corporate paperwork, the grueling hours spent planning large events for the rich and poor masses, the Yanese festivities, the annual music fest… Gods, with that guitar-clown Newmaker as the opener – I don't prod." Rat-man explained to a bleary-eyed Lizzie. Andy perked up at the mention of a "guitar-clown", but couldn't quite put a finger on where he had heard the name before. A flash and a beep of Lizzy's recorder put his mind back to rest. It ran wild, jotting down each huff of the rat's monologue. "Out there, up there, that's where your Kazimierz is headed, from what you've told me. Correct?"
"Uh-huh, Mister Lin."
"Of course. Would be a shame, a major, crying shame. It takes a strong mind to whip an unruly place into shape. Somewhat akin to a shape, at least, as places such as these buried, "deep" slums as they call themselves, they still escape my old, tired eyes."
"Uuuh… The relation escapes me, Mister Lin…"
"What's up there cannot exist without what's down here." He pointed to the sand. "There's heaven, and there's hell, always co-existing, always hand in hand. Isn't that right, Mr Ricketts?"
"Huh…?" Andy tore his mind from the Croissant-shared daze. The wide pale yonder groaned in exasperation.
"Isn't that what the Law says about the two possibilities of an afterlife, Mr Ricketts? Salvation and punishment?"
"There's also purgatory, I guess…" He mumbled. The muddled mess of school-related memories stenched neither of purgatory, nor anything else. He just sort of knew. Maybe the real purgatory was right here, in Lungmen. Who knows.
"Purgatory, right." Rat-man nodded. "Heaven, hell, purgatory. Shiny high-rise plazas with rows of towering skyscrapers, then the mires of all sorts of slums stretching for miles onward, hidden beyond the glint of neon. And purgatory?"
He glanced back to gauge the boy's eyes out.
"... You kinda threw me a curveball here, Mr Ricketts. I don't have a good analogy for purgatory."
Andy forced an apologetic shrug, shaking the slumping Croissant awake. His fingers were there to massage her burning mind, until she no longer interacted with her surroundings meaningfully. Only clung to his side, as much as he clung to hers – no more, no less. Symbiotic.
"Anyhow. That's the fate of any city headed in the golden direction. Capital of gold, some say – the epicenter of trade, where blue silk flows free. That statement in itself is a prime example of the hypocritical way of ignorant thinking. Blue silk? Are Lateran francs also blue, Mr Ricketts?"
Andy tripped over a bottle. The silence wind-wrapped in solitude that roamed the upper slum-tunnels yelped an echo at his clumsiness.
"Nah, they're, uh…" He needed a moment to dig up the image. "... They're white, I'm pretty sure."
"White. And the Kazimierzian Złoty?"
"Green, darker green, dark green, purple, red, reddish-white, orange, cyan, cerulean, "takie ciemniejszo-czerwone", and gray! Depending on the bill." Lizzy said it without the slightest bit of hesitation, as if she had prepared a little spreadsheet beforehand.
"Quite some bills."
"A lot." She dimmed. "Way too much, I'd say…"
"All goes to show how the mentality of a "proper" Lungmenite works. Blue bills, bright lights, no world outside of Lungmen. We're the middle of the entire universe, but too blind to notice the sub-world right by our doorsteps. I mean, not me. That's my sub-world." He sent them all a polite, yet almost flair-ish bow. I'm still better than you, the gesture said. "... But the ones in charge– or, rather, the ONE in charge simply likes to cover his eyes whenever the worlds clash, and all the "trash" from below spills onto his carpet. Someone else comes to clean it up."
"Who?" Lizzy asked.
"A lot of people. Bad people." The tapping of his cane drew a straight line through the empty street, dictating the way onward. "That's about as much as I can tell, anyway. Let the Kazimierzians know that uncontrolled greed breeds bad people. And pushes good people into considering the bad ones' services."
"Very, um… very thoughtful, Mister Lin." Lizzy nodded along to his tapping. "... Would you have anything else to add, possibly? Something for, um… coś na zakończenie? For the finish line?"
"Will it be a weekday release, or a Sunday number?"
"I'm not yet sure…"
"Aha." He stopped for a moment, then directed his voice clear towards the recorder. "... In that case, enjoy either your morning commute to work, or your lazy breakfast. Zàijiàn."
Click-clack. The recorder lost its gleam.
"That was really nice, Mister Lin." Lizzy warbled, struggling to shove the machine back into the fluff of her cardigan. "... I mean… this sort of eye-opener might really work back home! And I mean it, provided we get a decent enough redistributor…"
"I'm sure the masses will be elated." He mumbled, absent-mindedly. Something else had his attention grasped - a pair of rodents lurking about in a trash heap not too far away. Uneaten scraps of plastic and lead bloomed between their yellowish teeth. Flowers grown by the slums.
The group approached. Behind the backs of their frontliners, Andy and Croissant had to once more switch duties – one fell victim to Sister Midnight's playful fingers that dragged the mind off to never-never land, while the other had awoken to carry the fallen. Andy slumped flush against the girl, burrowing his lead-heavy head into the valley between her shoulder and neck.
"...?" One of the wimpy rodents dared lift their face. It was a child no older than ten, graceless and dirty. Rocks ran down their arms. Tufts of thin, slimy hair covered their vision. "... Who are you?"
"Yeah, who are you?" The other sang along to their tune. This one had more bite in its voice, a lot more life in itself. "This is already marked, piss off."
"Marked by fate, it seems." The old man murmured. Beneath his heavy lids, only the glimmer of a tired eye could barely be noticed. The sight sparked sadness. "It's very late, little rodents. Too late for either of you, I'd say. No way to find a brait in this pile, I'm sure."
"What?" The quieter one perked their fluffy ears, like an antenna being readjusted. "What's a "brait?"
"Rough diamonds, I guess." Croissant threw her wisdom. "Used 'ta be lookin' for 'em at som' point."
"Mmm." The old man noticed the lack of Andrew between the conscious and the living, sealed by a silent nod. "Could be that."
"Yeah, obviously there aren't no diamonds in here." The other little rat-creature scoffed. "It's all chow, genius. Our chow, I mean. So don't even try playing any tricks, or I'll gut ya. All of ya."
The louder rodent produced a short, plastic knife from within the folds of its tattered slum-dweller regalia, drawing a gasp from Lizzy. The rat-man however, seemed rather unimpressed by the sight, though it took some effort not to budge and crack a chuckle. A lot of effort.
"Very vile dictionary." He summed. "... And such a fierce weapon, too."
"You bet your ass its fierce!" The creature yelled into the night, waking the empty streets and forcing an echo through their throats. "And I know how to use it! You're all gonna be looking like that guy when I'm done with ya."
A dirty finger flew towards Andrew. Some heads turned, notably to assess his unconscious state. He wasn't there. The threat was real.
"Major fright, you two." The old man shuddered, then reached into his endless coat. "How much would it take to persuade you not to end us here and now? An arm? A leg?"
"Hell do I need your arms and legs for, old man?" Both creatures stood adamant, yet a sliver of curiosity seemed to already have been breaking their ranks. "... Not like we can eat them. You're too chewy, no?"
"Very chewy." He replied. "All old meat is chewy and mostly inedible. There's a lesson to be learned there somewhere, too, Miss Lizawietta."
"Is there…?" Lizzy blinked, blankly staring ahead. Her eyes seemed captivated by the children's insistence.
"Of course. Something about letting the old go to waste, about the here-and-now, the new-and-shiny doing the work they're fitted to do. Where no amount of "too young to comprehend, too infantilized to function like clockwork, too spoiled to be better than me" can push the fresh ones out of business."
"Okay." She whispered. After a second of collective staring at the old man, the reporter asked: "... Is it still related to the topic of old meat?"
"Sort of." The rat-man shrugged. "Anyhow, you rascals should be asleep at this hour."
"So should you, old man." The louder one scowled. The quiet one kept staring at Lizzy, who waved back with a beaming smile. It did not reciprocate the gesture.
"Old man, it says." A chuckle bubbled from the old man's lips. An old chuckle. From an old man. "So be it. Old people usually possess at least a smidge of knowledge and life experience, you know."
"I got life experience!"
"S-She's got life experience." The quiet one affirmed.
"But no materialistic possessions. How about a bribe?"
"Bribe?" It craned its neck in curiosity. "... You think you can bribe me?"
"A-And me?" The other asked from behind her back.
"I don't know. Can I?" Lizzy and Croissant watched in growing suspension, as the rat-man's unkempt nails returned form beneath his coat, baring a handful of rolled up straps of colorful plastic. The louder creature lost her wit for but a moment, her face teeming with distrustful curiosity.
"... What is that?"
"Oh, I think you know perfectly well what it is. Something sweet and neat, so no need to bleat. A treat, if you will." He added, after a split second of consideration. The kids stared, starry-eyed and wide-mouthed. The louder one regained her consciousness first.
"You think you can buy us with what, candy? Candy of all things?" She asked, as if trying to convince herself otherwise. "... What kind of candy? What is that?"
"What kind of candy do you like?"
"..." She took a moment. The rodent behind her back tapped her on the shoulder and lowered its lips to her ear, pouring breathed words inaudible to the rest. She considered his hushed plan of action. "... Uh… fruit drops? Dragonfruit fruit drops?"
"What a coincidence." The rat man hurled the kids a smile, while his fingers twisted and shuffled like a tiny tornado of loose fabric and dry skin. The wrappers went bleak – assorted themselves dutifully into an obedient line, then segregated until there was nothing but a sea of bright, neon pink. The industrialized shade of artificial dragon fruit coloring. Ripe with flavor, straight from the assembly line. "You kids tempted yet?"
"... Depends." A sly undertone slithered into the loud one's voice. The sight of sweets within reach brought out the businesswoman she didn't know she had in her. "... What do you want us to do? Share the trash slop? We could…" A grain of drool skidded past her lips. "... We could probably share some."
"What I want from you is to go home and get a good night's rest, you troublemakers. Would-be troublemakers, more like." He threw them the candy. Without missing a beat, the louder creature abandoned all pride and threw herself at the rainbow-shaded wrappers, leaving the quiet one staring with wide, queasy eyes. It let out a sigh of acceptance, a token of resignation to one's fate.
"She's always like this…"
"Figures." The rat man scoffed something akin to a chuckle. "I'm guessing the deal's on?"
"Deal? The deal? The "get our asses off the streets and go home" deal?" The loud creature, parched for candy, growled from the floor. The sound of wrappers coming untied and her nails digging into the sweet caramels crawled between her words. "Might be a problem, y'know. A small one."
"A problem?"
"Yeah!" She propped herself up, protectively holding all the plastic shells close to her rag-clad chest. Running her eyes wildly over everyone present, Croissant and Lizzy (even the sleeping beauty, Andy), got hit with a stern glare. "... We ain't got no home. Nowhere to go, old man. What do you want us to do, dive into a sewer?"
"That's what we usually do anyway…" The quieter one whispered past her shoulder. She knocked his head back with her tiny fist.
"Point stands." She locked eyes with the rat, challenging and unrelenting. A fierce display. "What're you gonna do, ah? Throw me more candy to force me into a sewer? Leash me, drag me off?"
"Maybe this, maybe that." His reply came unamused. With a gentle sigh, he shoved his cane to the back, letting his flimsy, worm-like tail take care of it. The creatures blinked.
"Wuh-?"
A small noise parted their lips, before a gasp of immediate reluctance and opposition followed. The rat-man grabbed them both by the scruffs and lifted high up into the air – with the quiet one dangling politely, looking around with eyes painted over with resignation, and the loud one kicking, screaming and vigorously protesting against its current predisposition.
"Fuh–...? Put me down! Put… Put US down! What the hell? HELP! HELP?! ANYONE!?" She wailed for the heavens, yet the sky remained deaf to her cries. "ANYONE?! GODS' SAKE, SOMEONE?!"
"Behave, child." The rat clicked his tongue. "People are sleeping at this hour, don't bother waking them."
"YOU'RE KIDNAPPING ME! I MEAN, US!"
"Is he…?" The quiet one propped their head to the side. He didn't sound all too convinced.
"Am I?" The rat joined in on the question.
"YES! YES, YOU ARE! HE IS!" Off she went, the troublesome rodent, stirring up yet another shouting match. Lizzy and Croissant watched in silence, a stark contrast to the explosive creature dusting up the street. "HE IS! HE… Hello? Can you at least admit I'm right? You two? Hey? Girl power?"
"Um…" Lizzy took a step closer to the rat. "... Mister Lin, what exactly are you planning to do with these, um… z tymi huliganami? With these here rapscallions?"
"Nothing too major. Some lax manner-talk, maybe a bit of readjusting." He shrugged, a gesture way too casual for the predicament – with the loud creature taking wild swings at his face, and missing each time. "I'll get them somewhere warm for the night. A candy a day keeps the reaper away, or something."
"Huh?" The loud one stopped at once.
"Huh…?" The quiet one chimed. "Somewhere warm?"
"Mhm. Somewhere nice. No rodent deserves sleeping out in the cold, don't you think?"
"That's…" He searched for a word, but his lacking vocabulary offered no peace.
"Ultraliberal?" Lizzy held out a verbal hand, but the quiet one stared blankly instead of taking it.
"Ultra-what?"
"U-... Nevermind. Yes, yes, Mister Lin, please take these creatures away and keep them warm and toasty!"
"Will do." He murmured, then pointed the loud one towards a gigantic pile of trash gathered behind the dumpsters. A mesh gate guarded it all, the slums' own landfill. It was huge – kilometers of nothing but trash tumbling around and about, with no goal, no past, no future – only the present. The creature scowled, unimpressed, and Croissant and Lizzy followed her eyes towards the garbage land. "... If you will, dear Lizawietta, right past this communal landfill is a street leading into the more, hm… DECORATIVE parts of Lungmen. I trust Miss Croissant and…" Here, he took a moment to study Andy's absent face. Still out, still cold. "... And Mr Ricketts, provided he wakes up, will take good care of you, and your "research", isn't that right?"
"Uh-huh. Ya got it, baws." Croissant did her best at attempting a salute, dropping poor Andy in the process. Sprawled out on the sanded concrete, his brain didn't even bother waking up. Both girls exchanged a queasy look and jumped to his sides to pick him up. "... So just a straight road from 'ere on forward, ah?"
"Roads are never straight." The words calmed even the raging Loud Creature, making her legs grow limp and arms fall to the sides. She stared ahead, silent, awaiting his next words. "... What appears as such is oftentimes a reflection of the misleading truth. Like men locked inside a cave, being shown only the shadows of what goes on outside, illuminated by the flimsy flickers of a flame long gone dim. Are you following?"
"..." The girls blinked. "... Not really, no."
And the rat man sighed. Fastening the troublemakers under his hold, his worm-like tail crossed a few eights in the air, then waved the two a messy farewell. "... What I meant is that you need to watch yourselves. Your backs. Your fronts, too. Everywhere around, in general. Got it?" He turned to the two, offering one last contemplative look – one that said "I believe in you, you two. Not many people do, probably, but I do."
"Yup." Croissant nodded.
"Uh-huh. Na sto i jeden procent." Lizzy added.
"Great." He sized them from head to toe, most likely calculating their chances. "... And watch for the aforementioned "bad men." Big guys. Black cloaks. Wide brimmed hats. Mmm?"
"Mmm." Both girls hummed in acknowledgement.
"Can we just go…?" The quieter creature poked the old man's side, which earned him a snarl from the louder one.
"Don't poke him. moron! He's gonna give us more candy, don't bite the hand that feeds."
"There, there." Rat-man sighed. "... How about a story first, hm?"
Both perked up.
"A story it is." His footsteps played into the overarching storyline, adding a dynamic soundtrack to the words now flowing freely, like silk, out of his fuzzy mug. "Long, long ago, before the trees we know even began to sprout, before the rivers we used to bathe in even knew their source, the land of Victoria lay barren and empty, wild and unkempt… with no one to temp as their so-called ruler. A land of freedom and folly, the men and women – all brawly and eager to explore, live off the earth beneath their feet and grow the world, not to be a bore. Well, in one such dirt hut, lived a farmer by trade, a jester at heart. Prominent in his craft, a loving wife by his side, Susie was her name, and a warm heart she had. Too, I meant. Times passed on slow, twenty something winters he's had, but eventually a day came in which the youth's resolve came to a halt. With an instrument in hand, not quite a guitar, he played for the fowls, the hounds and the burdencattle, 'cause amongst the forest-life community, he was quite the star. White was his hair, pristine like the snow – two fuzzy ears up top, a feline, unbothered by but a single scar. And as he sat and played, played the night away, herding his burdenbeasts and keeping the prowling creatures at bay, a strange man came to offer a place in his own play. A man dressed in silks, in riches beyond sight, not a single receptor flared the feline farmer's mind to send it into a fright. A devil from beyond our world, born of technological wonder long forgotten, he offered a deal, a tale of immortality yet to be written. And our poor farmer, the dazed mind at hand, he fell into the fiend's trap, allured by the foresight – living forever, unbothered by mortality, being one with the mountains that reigned tall above all, escaped time and–..."
Thud-thud. The footsteps exchanged sound. One pair carried off in the lowly-bustling direction of the heart of the slums, the very core of this entire anthill, where the poor ori-creatures dug their nails into today's struggle. Another two pairs, followed closely by a body being somewhat reluctantly dragged, carried off past a broken down fence and into the thick of a hundred-year-old collection of various unwanted doodads. Cans, bottles, wrappers, feed, bikes, bike wheels, bike seats, bike handles, bike holders, anything bike related, clothes, bodies, slop-stained rubbers – you name it.
The twin moons shone softly, illuminating the mountain of trash Andy found himself sitting atop, when he had finally came to. Their empty eyes said nothing, blind to the struggles of today. Andy gazed into the uneven pits riddling their surface, asking silently "Why? Why can't the day just end? Why is it all not over yet?", but the moons remained reluctant to answer. "Stop staring, you vagrant." Their silent pledges shot through his brain. "Get a job."
"But I do have a job." Andy murmured back. There was something akin to hurt pride to be found in the statement, something which the moons had picked up on.
"Is it a job, bum? Do people usually lose their minds when doing their jobs? Is it part of your contract? Does insurance cover a scrambled brain?"
Andy thought for a moment. Duflot never mentioned psychological damage. Then again, the damage inflicted onto his brain had its roots dipped through and through into Kazdel, maybe even a little of Laterano.
"... My brain's not scrambled." He murmured. Some soft shifting arose from one side, a ringing of a bike bell from the other. Metal sheets rustled and sang in the clear night, a chorus for the wicked. For him and the moons – a moonlight sonata. How beautiful! The swirly voice of a singing saw, how melodically it rang. Andy smiled, but the moons remained unimpressed.
"Your brain's not scrambled? What would you call it then? A textbook example of a healthy mind? Grade A thinking-sponge? So far it led you to places most wouldn't even dream... or rather, NIGHTMARE of traversing."
Andy dimmed. The words bit like acid.
"That's not true…"
"It is true. Has it, or has it not led you to places most wouldn't traverse without an army by their side?" The insistant voice echoed past his ears, past the trash, and past Lungmen as a whole. Terra was asking him a simple question. A yes or no answer, Andy.
But he couldn't answer. The sky grew impatient and sighed in all its astral annoyance.
"Where are you even headed? Somewhere where people will ask you questions. Somewhere where Mister Ricketts clashes with Mister Reiff, and then what? What then? Where are you going from there on? Quo vadis, Andy?"
Words of the Lateran tongue. Andy hasn't heard it in a hot while.
"... Why are you speaking Lateran?"
"Why aren't YOU, Andy? Why isn't Andrew Reiff speaking Lateran? Why isn't Andrew Reiff living in Laterano? Why isn't Andrew Reiff using his own Law-given name? Why is Andrew Reiff terrified of a mirror? These are all questions we'd like to ask, but also know we wouldn't get even a single answer from your stubborn self, you snotty rat. Isn't that right?"
Andy blinked. In the fracture of a second that separated his sight from the moons, he felt at peace. Peace in his life only ever came when he closed his eyes – the warm lids soothed the pain away, and the overbearing darkness played a pivotal role in taking the edge off. Closing his eyes and turning away from the widely fearedTHING AT HAND served well – closing his eyes had never, not once, betrayed him. Closing his eyes was the cowardly thing to do, and Andy knew he was a coward. How did the song go? "Coward in uniform?" Seems like him and Ricketts could share a few more attributes than he had initially thought.
When he opened his eyes, the moons were gone. Rather, their voice was gone. Silent as ever, they gleaned from above, casting a shadow of a disheveled Forte right onto his own face. A bit ruffled, Croissant loomed over the boy, her face just gently rippled with a soft smile, and stained with tiny droplets of blood. His own blood, that much he knew. Andy wanted to reach out and touch her cheek, but stopped himself before the thought could even materialize at a motoric function, remembering that his current reality couldn't have been a dream. No grabby-grabs outside his never-never land.
"... Crossie." He purred, half awake. She let out a huff of relief.
"Got me worryin' fer nothin. Yer an idiot, ya know? Massive idiot. Helluva jerk, too." The girl crossed her arms, then sat back on an empty metal barrel, the object thudding softly under her weight. "Got me draggin yer ass for miles on end, and fer what? Fer a hushy "Crossie?" Naw "are you alright", naw "is everythin' okay?"
"..." Andy exchanged a look with the moons. They said nothing, leaving him at the mercy of one pissed Forte. "... Are you alright?"
"..." A pair of eyes scowled from behind her fringy curtain of apricot orange – scary, sure – but not for long. "... Yeah. Yeah, I am. You?"
"Mmm."
"Good."
Silence fell over their voices. A forest of mirrors grew by each unspoken word, hanging from high above by fishing reels cast by the gods laughing from above. They pointed down at Andy and tore his silent self apart, wheezing and crackling with laughter. He had her, had her in the intimate embrace of the night, but decided to say nothing and stare away at the moons. Moron sorry-merc.
"The moons are out tonight." He pointed out, tapping his fingers against the unreachable moon-dust. Croissant threw the remark into a mind-folder appropriately marked "deaf ears."
"Hell's wrong witcha, baws? Ya wander off gawds know where, then wake me up in som' shabby, plastic covered basement?" She poked him in the rib. Andy drew a sharp breath.
"Ow?"
"Don't "Ow" me, ya wench. Genuinely, what in the seven hells is wrong with ya? Where did ya even go after we split?"
Her brooding eyes followed his, marking their every move to memory. Andy rolled into a ball inside of himself, a hunted animal under the scope of a Lateran championship shooter.
"Where did I go? Where did YOU go?"
"Where did I go?" She shot him an accusing glare. After thinking the notion through, her eyes softened. "... Yeah. Where the hell DID I go?"
"To a casino!" Andy bit back, filled with a vigor he didn't know he could muster. "Law knows how much cash you spilled down the drain, so stop acting like a bitch– OW!"
"I ain't actin' like a bitch. Don't say that. Ain't no value in callin' me a bitch." She murmured, her tail coiling behind her back. At the sight, Andy felt like the worst person to ever wander Terra near immediately. "... 'Sides, yer way more bitchy than me."
"No I'm not."
"Yeah, ya are."
"I'm not." Andy blinked. The twin moons offered no escape, only a cold gaze. "... I'm not."
"Ya kinda are, baws. Ya keep actin' like one. "Don't need 'is, don't need 'at." She gesticulated in an overly stage-like manner. Andy was sure he does NOT act like that. Ever, " 'S gettin' annoyin'. Really. 'S like yer tryin' 'ta wall yerself off from the outside world, and for what? For what, baws?"
"For what? For nothing, piss off." Andy groaned, exasperated. The trash behind his back felt naturally repugnant – a bed of nails and metal sheets, dirty cans and bottles with droplets of unknown liquids lingering at the bottom. That, and a lot, a lot of empty noodle boxes. "I'm not walling myself, I'm just being a responsible adult. What do you want me to do, sit around on my ass and cry all the time? Wail about how awful my life is, while doing fuck-all… ow. Nothing about it?"
"Naw? Naw, that ain't what I said. Tha's far from what I said, 'n ya know it." She poked him in the ribs, glaring accusingly. Accusing him of what, exactly? Of keeping to himself? Is shutting up and NOT crying like a little bitch considered a crime now? What her problem was, Andy genuinely couldn't understand. The concept sieved through his fingers like sand.
"Can you not poke me?" His body just now had registered the beatings from earlier. The bikers were generous with their touches, thoroughly covering him with fresh bruises and smoldering love-taps. Like hickeys after an intense session of what-could've-been, his skin remained peppered with red, plagued by the burning sensations of yesterday's hurt.
"It hurts."
"It hurts me too, Andy." She prodded further, burrowing her finger beneath his ribcage. Past the bars of bone and walls of skin, her finger found a lung or some other living-appliance, then burrowed snugly into it. "Yet ya keep doin' it. Ya keep bein' like this."
"Like what?" For whatever reason, he didn't mind her touch. If she wanted to poke, so be it. Break my ribs, Crossie – he thought.
"Like this. Locked off all the time. Don't ya understand I'm genuinely… genuinely tryin'? I'm tryin', Andy. I'm really tryin'." Her voice softened. Her touch followed, gentle and caring on his chest. Her palm enveloped his malnourished body as a strange token of hopeful appreciation, adding to the quiet words that spilled from her mouth. "... But ya just don't get it."
"..." The words struck a pillar near his brain cortex. A pillar of flesh and muscle, one that held up his defensive snark. It all fell and tumbled, crushed beneath the weight of her murmured confessions. In the moons' glow, the city's far neons, Croissant seemed so small and meek for once – like a kitten curling into a ball by his leg, rubbing its fuzzy head against the muddly fabric of his cargos and begging for acceptance. She did not meow, though. Fortes never meowed.
"... What don't I get?"
"That I'm tryin' 'ta be someone else for once. Break the cycle, ya know?"
"What cycle?"
"What cycle…" She scoffed. Sitting side by side, her body swayed ever so closer to his, comfortably laid out on the heap of useless nothing. "... The cycle my family runs on, dummy. Cycle of cash-chasin', 'n name-makin'. Why d'ya think I went to Kazdel in the first place?"
"..." Andy dug through his memories. Something, sometime… she told him this and that… that and this… "... To make some cash? Catastrophe hunting?"
"Yeah? 'Ta make me old folks proud." She sighed. "... Didn't wanna end up an office brat, so me silly brain decided to pick up messenger work. And where did 'at lead me?" Her head flopped onto his shoulder, eyes glowing with muddly green – askingly glancing into his. "... To ya. To yer poor, cryin' self, rolled out on the concrete like 'som stray cat."
"..." Andy mulled the words through. Something didn't quite add up. "... So why'd you pick me up? Why did you bring me to Lungmen?"
"..." She kept the silence festering. Just the gentle howl of wind passing them by, playing a symphony of gale-chime-like clinking when swishing past empty metal tubes and blowing into bottles, bubbling up a song of the night. The slums didn't seem so bad now. Not when his eyes towered over it all, a land of kaleidoscopic lights growing at his feet. A ruler of the trash-pile, a king atop his mountain throne of unwanted trinkets. "Król w królestwie niechcianych bibelotów", that's what Lizzy would've called him.
And then she spoke again. Quiet, buzz-like against his arm. Or was it him who leaned on her? Would the battered, the bruised and the hurt really be enough to hold her up? Andy did not know.
"... Because." She whispered. "Because I realized there was more to it all."
"..."
More to life? More to Terra? More to herself? Andy did not know. He didn't even know whether there was anything more to his own pitiful existence, let alone hers. He kept quiet.
"... And ya kinda made me realize. That's all." She summed, then sat up straight. Andy finally realized that he had in fact been leaning against her, and fell down into a box bulging with rust-rotten screws and bolts. Croissant was there to pick him up. "... So that's why I'm kinda… ya know. Since me old folk won't see eye 'ta eye wiff me anyway, what's the point in tryin' hard 'ta make 'em proud?" She smiled, before reaching to affectionately ruffle his locks, all sticky and icky with blood. "Tryin' 'ta give more to life, nawt just take – tha's the real money-maker, baws. And I'm really, really tryin' hard to give more, y'know? But ya just won't take it, ya stubborn sunovabtich, ya."
The ruffling grew in intensity. Andy couldn't help but smile into her touch, thoroughly enjoying the feel of her hands on his burning scalp – like a soothing balm poured over an aching heart.
"... Yeah, I'm a… a bit of a meanie like that." He admitted, albeit bashfully. The girl's fingers, coursing through his messy hair, made it considerably more difficult to keep a straight face. "... I'm sorry, though. For, um… for doing that."
"Yer not." Croissant shot him a knowing glance.
"... Okay, I'm not."
"Yeah." She sighed. "Yer actin', ya thespian."
"I'm not. I promise." Andy felt her fingers curling dangerously tight around his scalp. "But I'll try to do something about it, alright?"
"About what? The actin'? The wallin'?"
"This and that. That, and more."
"And more." A huff. "Yeah. 'F course ya are."
Croissant sighed. No drill large and powerful enough has ever been constructed on Terra to break through the moron's thick skull. She knew more efforts would all amount to nothing, they'd be as fruitless as a mango tree in the bleak midwinter of a Kjeragian behemoth-mountain – dead and cold. With one last ruffle to the boy's mess of curls, she relented and flew back onto a bed of candy wrappers.
"... 'As 'at, then. One last chance, Andy, y'hear? One last one."
"One last one." He confirmed with a nod, still smiling so bright. The moons shone so beautifully that night, so sweet and caring on his tired skin. The battered battlefields of his body all took a deep breath of relief – they earned it, after all. He's earned it – the moment to sit back and relax. Relax in the slums, with a pocket full of documents and wash-wire. A trusted friend by his side, a Kuranta newswoman running about… and… and, uh…
…
… Huh.
"... Crossie?"
"Mm?"
"Where's Lizzy?"
"Hm?" Croissant's tail coiled in unease. "Lizzy? Said she was goin' 'ta record 'er thoughts 'bout this lil' escapade of ours and come back."
Lazily, she waved off the crumbling masses of unwanted trash-treasures.
"... Somewhere down 'ere, I guess. Between 'at old bike 'n 'at broken TV. Ya see?"
"..." Andy sat up, sharpening his gaze. He couldn't ACTUALLY sharpen anything, he just narrowed his eyes to try and see better in the dark. "... Old TV?"
"Yep?"
"Uh-huh…" The flatscreen bounced back a ray of moonlight. Like a flimsy spark, it ignited a burning need beneath the stake of his soul. "... We should get a TV someday. For the library, I mean."
"A TV? What for?"
"Dunno." He shrugged. "I mean, it gets lonely at night. TV static would make it more bearable, no?"
"Ya can just say yer in a dire need 'a cawmpany, man." She shot him a look. "... Ion bite, baws. If ya ever need me 'ta stay the night, I'll stay the night. And maybe crack ya open som' more, ah?"
"Yeah, good luck." Andy smirked at the thought, coughed out a snarky chuckle and mentally scolded himself for acting like a piece of shit again. "... You're gonna need it."
"I ain't gonna need no luck. Just me Minoan charm's enuff'." The girl batted her eyebrows, leaving Andy questioning many things, both near and far. "... Anyway, TV's are hella expensive. Don't 'ave the cash for it."
"We don't?"
"YA don't. I do."
"Oh." It took him a moment to realize what she meant. "Aw…"
"Don't "Aw" me. Yer not bein' sweet wiff' me now."
Under her scowly eyes, Andy felt once again small and meaningless – but the feeling was of artificial nature. It wasn't the same sense of not-worth when being measured side by side with the grand cathedral from his dreams, no. It was a playful jab. He knew not to take it as anything else but that, but still…
"Aye-aye, captain." He murmured. Silence enveloped the two, soon broken by the ruffling and shuffling of metal.
"... Pani Rogalik? Panie Ricketts…? O, państwo… I mean, miss and mister! I'm all done!"
Lizzy emerged from the feet of the mountain, all panting and blushy after killing the climb.
"Done with yer lil' walkie-talkie?" Croissant jumped to her feet. "Got all 'at Kazimierzian mumble noted?"
"Uh-huh…"
"Then, we can go, no?"
"Uh-huh…" She nodded again.
"Then, should we go?" Andy chimed in, his halo-nails clinking impatiently. Lizzy once more nodded, but the act lacked conviction.
"We could, but… but I'm not sure whether we should."
"Why not?" Both Crossie and the gray stray turned to follow the girl's finger – when she pointed towards the neon-glinted cityline in the far distance, their eyes rubbed over the sight of an ever so sprawling industrial clash of mechanized landscapes fighting the meek defenses of urban-natural life, a culture built on suffering, trying hard to preserve what was its, and its alone. There, past the trash, the lost and forbidden, the slums met their end – bordered some factory-filled klaxon of old scrap-piles dead set on producing revenue. A wide, open street connected the two – on one side, the sprawling approach of "civilization", on the other, the stubborn recluse of poverty and crime, infection and a lot, lot of Oripathy. Usually so quiet and tense, like two Lateran sharpshooter-duelers locked in a staredown before the sweet, awaited draw, the sides were split, never bothering to invade one another with their unwanted presence. That night, however, a buzz of anticipation electrified the air. Tensions amplified the senses, shot clean adrenaline straight into the hearts of everyone present and posed them against either side – there was a conflict brewing.
A riot.
Lined up in rows, glinting maliciously, were the shields and visors of LGD personnel – like rooks in the hands of a chess maestro – positioned masterfully all along the edge of the industrial area, the entrance to the REAL Lumgen. Their spears, swords, crossbows, and batons morphed into one shapeless mass in the streetlights, offering a clear, dead-set warning to anyone dumb enough to approach and force their formation to break. Nervous twitches of steel bounced about the gathered, the rookies exchanging unconvinced glances with their superiors – met with nothing but silence, the veterans' gazes locked in a deathly stare-off with the approaching, thundering storm at hand.
The other side.
The "them."
Us, Lungmen's elite. Them, the scum of this city.
Roaring with slurs, retching with laughter and empty threats, the other side of the street stood in disarray, somewhat messily copying the LGD's strict row-making customs. Rags, ponchos, linen and wool, cheap fabrics, and knockoff tracksuits, all flimsily flapping in the night's cold gale, gathered to oppose the law-maker's might and voice their concerns, as concerned citizens should.
Walking corpses and breathing carcasses.
With each curse and yell thrown carelessly into the night, black particles swirled about the air, spreading their disease like a pack of rabid hounds.
Did these old bones remember the atrocities committed years prior? Would the minds still burn with hatred at the stream of disdain once forcefully poured into the heart of the slums? Did the eyes still remember the faces of those who had shoved them to the brink of humanity?
Most of them didn't. Most of them were there to prove a point they didn't even remember making – too caught up in the act to realize what they're up against, too prideful to step down now. Men and women, Lupo, Perro, Sarkaz, Vouivre, Lung, Feline, Durin, Cautus, Caprinae, Cerato, Kuranta, Forte, Liberi, Oni, Rebbah, Ursus, Zalak, and whatever else – all joined together under the infected standard. Screams of blood boiling hot pierced the air, challenging and defying.
"Come at it! Fuckin' come at it, L.G.D. bastards! Come get a piece!" A particularly loud Perro girl bared her teeth. "Tear us down all my life, see how you handle the product of your hard work! Strike 'em one!"
"Strike 'em one, yeah!" A chorus of equally dusty and feisty youth shouted. Gathered in a circle in front of the murmuring sea of slum-dwellers, they took on dishing out the first assault - verbal.
"Clowns! Fucking bastards! All of you, every single one!" The Perro's war-brother, an uncharacteristically non-ratty Zalak crossed the middle of the street, pushing the frontline in the slums' favor. "You're getting it tonight! You're getting all of it!"
"SIR, YES SIR" The buzzing garrisons of slum-manpower commanded from behind, a roar that shook the surrounding buildings. A few curly-sheet huts fell apart, torn by the wild warriors for scrap to impale the faceless with.
Thud!
The L.G.D. legion shifted, one foot up front, weapons raised. A screech of warning broke through the constant screaming and yelling, mechanical and unfeeling in nature – megaphone feedback.
"DISPERSE, THIS IS YOUR FIRST AND ONLY WARNING. DISPERSE AND GO HOME, CITIZENS OF LUNGMEN. FURTHER DESECRATION OF PEACE WILL BE MET WITH THE AUTHORIZED USE OF FORCE AGAINST YOUR APPROACH. DISPERSE, GO HOME."
At the metal idol's words, the waves of the slum-sea only roared further in violent indignation.
.
"DISPERSE? AND DO FUCK-ALL? EQUAL RIGHTS! EQUAL RIGHTS FOR THE INFECTED!"
"INFECTED ARE PEOPLE! INFECTED ARE PEOPLE TOO! I AM A PERSON! I AM A PERSON!"
"RIGHTS FOR THE INFECTED! DOWN WITH THE SLUMS! TO HELL WITH SHOVING US UNDER THE CARPET! TAKE RESPONSIBILITY, YENWU!"
"RESPONSIBILITY FOR THE SLUM-LIFE! SLUM-LIFE FOR NOONE, OR SLUM-LIFE FOR ALL!"
"DOWN WITH THE SYSTEM!"
"DOWN WITH THE LAW!"
"DOWN WITH THE SERPENT EATING ITS TAIL!"
"DOWN WITH THE L.G.D."
"YEAH! FUCK THE L.G.D.! FUCK 'EM!"
"FUCK 'EM ALL! AND FUCK CH'EN! FUCK ALL OF YOU!"
"FUCK THE L.G.D.! FUCK THE L.G.D.! FUCK THE L.G.D.!"
.
Their requests turned into a clear, booming chant. Thudding like a drum, constant in its rhythm. Again and again, their disdain for the L.G.D. has been made well known.
.
"FUCK THE L.G.D.! FUCK THE L.G.D.! FUCK THE L.G.D.! FUCK THE L.G.D.! FUCK THE L.G.D.! FUCK THE L.G.D.!"
.
Constantly, over and over again, the words reverberated through everyone's skulls. The hardened helms of officers up front betrayed no fear, however. There was no fright in their eyes, for there were no eyes to be seen. Only the reflection of those who dared gaze. The eyes of the righteous.
.
"Fuc-... Down with the L.G.D., huh?" Andy poked Croissant in the ribs, and the two exchanged a knowing smirk. "I can get behind that, actually."
"Ya, of all people. Ya, I get ya." She snorted. "... But we gotta get the hell away from 'ere, as fast as possible. Lizzy? Lizzy, luv, c'mere."
"..." Tripping by the tails and armaments of the gathered, Lizzy apologized profusely to a clearly-out-of-it hooded slummer and followed suit along with the two, as they made their way through the thick ranks of the warband. They couldn't see the street, couldn't see the officers up front, yet knew that somehow breaking through would be their only way out. Why now? Why get into the thick of it all?
"... If they're all here, why can't we just wait for this shitstorm (ow!) to end before going in?" Andy asked Croissant, but she shrugged. She couldn't give him a straight answer besides assuring that the L.G.D. would gladly let them pass into the area more commemorative of Lungmen's best. He did not prod any further after.
Andy got lost in the dweller-mass. Here and there, the merch-slinging durin from before ran through the crowds, merging their slimy fingers with whatever pockets they could reach, pulling slum-riches from within and ditching between the crowd's legs. Lupo fur flew everywhere, Feline ears twitched. A large patch of black leather shot through his vision, bringing his heart to a near stop – a familiar patch, an originium rose lay printed on top. Dazed, he wanted to run off after the sight, follow the leather and confirm his suspicions, but a tiny force had stopped his mindless rush. Lizzy grabbed the sleeve of his jacket after the sixth slummer had shouted "FUCK THE L.G.D.!" right by her ear. Those poor Kuranta stalagmites couldn't handle such vulgarities in such intensity, instead curling in on themselves to escape the ruckus. Andy sighed and took her hand, being led by Croissant himself.
"... Czy tutaj z-zawsze tak jest…? Is it always like that…?" She mewled to herself, no answer to be found anywhere.
Minds a bit clearer, the three of them kept pushing apart the living vines of contemp, stomping a way past the living, dying, and dead, headed straight on for the faceless scourge up front. From their masked point of view, it was the slummers who were the real scourge here, the actual plague feasting on Lungmen's carcass. All of it simply was a matter of perspective.
"YEAH, L.G.D. SWINE! ALL OF YOU, FUCK YOU! SUCK MY –... Hey. Hey! Hey, you three!"
The living catastrophe siren from before took a glance at their little triplet. One two, Sankta and Forte, three – a little Kuranta hugging his sleeve. The Perro dweller pointed accusingly.
"Where the hell are you going?"
"Out! Not our fight, missy!" Andy yelled back, hands drawn to a little megaphone by his mouth. "Good luck to you all, though!"
"What!? Get… Get your ass back here this instant! Hey! HEY!"
Wave-wave. Andy politely mentioned goodbye and carelessly crossed the street – to hell with looking both ways! He had just one goal in mind – the bed up-top the library, his tiny apartment and a balcony door waiting to be split ajar, welcoming the nightly breeze in. A cold pillow, a cup of hot coffee in the morning, the beaming smile of Croissant at six in the A and M's…
"STOP AT ONCE, CITIZEN."
A booming klaxon of mechanical authority barked. No volition. Obey or perish.
Andy blinked, thrown a bit off course. Standing before the breathing wall of glistening armor plates and empty eyes hidden behind visors that bounced the street limelight… A sight most intimidating. Each nail in his halo quivered at the thought, the mere mention of a sliver of L.G.D. armoring. The Law wasn't there to help. Croissant was, however.
"... Aye-aye, baws. Standin' as still as one can be." She put her arms high up in the air. "Not goin' anywhere, yeah?"
"DISPERSE. LEAVE, GO HOME. TAKE THE REST." It ordered. Andy felt his spine tingling, bothered by the presence of so many faceless masks staring him down. Lizzy clung to his side tight, burying her nails in the rough fluff of his coat.
"We're just passin', baws. We're from Lungmen, y'know? Uh-... Rich-Lungmen, I mean. I mean, ya know what I mean! That Lungmen!" She pointed behind their backs, arms still up high. "There! That, right 'ere. I live on Prospect's five, one hundred crossed by thirty–..."
"DISPERSE. LEAVE, GO HOME. TAKE THE REST. FINAL WARNING."
The barking hated being ignored. Andy swallowed a ball of spit in his throat, nervously switching from foot to foot – the few officers in front noticed and did the same. They took a definitive step forward, crushing the concrete with the accelerated weight.
"Disperse, citizen."
"Whuh-? I was just about to actually, yeah." Andy politely smiled and stepped away. Streaks of sweat bit his eyes and muddled his thoughts, pouring in bountiful quantities from his overgrown curls. "We're gonna leave. C'mon, Crossie."
"What?" She turned to him, then back to the guardsmen. "We ain't leavin'. We want passage into the city, we ain't part of the riot. Lemme pass. Let US pass."
"DISPERSE. DISPERSE. DISPERSE. DISPERSE…"
Like a broken record, the megaphone kept rattling. Croissant paid it no attention, instead facing the faceless head on.
"Listen 'ere, I need ya and yer lil' cawmpany 'a misery 'ta step away 'n let me, 'n my buddies pass. Ya got 'at? Got it through yer thick skull? 'At helmet 'a 'yers?"
She kept arguing. The wall stood, unmoving. Yells, screams of anticipation brewed from behind.
.
"FUCK THE L.G.D.! FUCK THE L.G.D.! FUCK THE L.G.D.!..."
.
"Mister, listen, it's yer moral obligation to assist the lives of Lungmenites 'n let us pass into the…"
.
"FUCK THE L.G.D.! FUCK THE L.G.D.! FUCK THE L.G.D.!..."
.
"Me? No, I swear, I was just gonna go home. I was headed straight- I mean, STRAIGHT home. Croissant? Crossie, can we go? Please?"
.
"FUCK THE L.G.D.! FUCK THE L.G.D.! FUCK THE L.G.D.!..."
.
"P-Pani Rogalik… P-... Panie Ricketts…? Czy m-my możemy stąd iść, prosze…? Prosze, ja naprawdę nie chce tu być…"
.
"FUCK THE L.G.D.! FUCK THE L.G.D.! FUCK THE L.G.D.!..."
.
"DISPERSE."
.
One stepped out of line. The formation has been broken. The peacekeepers have finally found their breaking point, and as luck would have it, a breaker of said point. Andy tried taking a step back, but his legs wouldn't listen. None of himself would, as the mechanical arm of justice wrapped itself tight around his wrist and pulled, sprung him high up in the air. He dangled pathetically from the officer's grasp, his feet kicking and shoving air to no avail.
"W-... Let go? Let go of me, the hell…?" He mumbled, lungs void of air. No loud noise could he muster, no yell to be heard anywhere. Even the chanting from behind had died down completely, now reduced to an electrified buzz, waiting for an opportunity to sign its discharge. Andy felt threatened, rightfully so. Croissant shouted in shock, as the hand thundered down and threw him violently against concrete. Andy fell arm-first with a loud crunch, followed by the gasp of everyone gathered. Nails rattled, Lizzy grasped her mouth, Croissant's eyes went wide. Like two talons that caught and spread the moonlight straight into his.
"... A-Aw, fuck…" Andy shrugged off the Law's nose-flick and shook his head. It hurt. It really did hurt. Felt like something had wormed its way into his forearm and dug out a comfy nest inside of his bones, constantly drilling up and down to enlarge its unwanted apartment. It was splitting. Splitting. A white hot branding iron of scorching pain shoved into his meat and led along the bone on a crusade of pain and suffering. "... Fu-... Fuh…"
Hard breaths. Uneven, rampant. Disillusioned from reality. There was someone by his side – Croissant. Lizzy, nowhere to be seen. Away, taking tiny steps towards the slum-crowd.
Crossie kept speaking. Shouting at him, then at the L.G.D. – over and over, her hair kept flying back and forth like a cloud of smoke directed by the wind. The masked monsters stood unmoved, back in formation. What was there left to do? What else to say?
Andy glanced to his right. The slummers were yelling, but he couldn't quite hear them. Approaching ever so slightly, their footsteps rumbled in his ears – a bassline for the constant screech of blood to sing along to. He didn't know what else to do but stare at their approaching figures. Their cloaks, their linen shirts, the flimsy designs of their knockoff clothes…
The infected, the unwell and the poor.
.
"CEASE RESISTING. DISPERSE, CITIZEN."
.
A command, again. Andy looked towards the sky and saw the moon blotted out by that same, annoying and shapeless mug of the L.G.D. approved armor. Croissant now lay by his side, her eye slightly more blackened than usual. Clutching to her exposed stomach, with red escaping through her fingers – flimsily, like sand through a sieve.
Red, spilling from her body.
Or was it merely an illusion? A false plume erected to maim his mind and push it to act without reason?
Andy blinked, then glanced again. No, she was definitely bleeding. Stop thinking about dumb shit.
Ow!
The Law! Why now!? Why do you strike me, not the people who've hurt me!? Why are you like this, always and everywhere!?
The prayers were left unanswered. The only message back came in the form of an armored boot raining down upon his flesh. Digging into his stomach, worming its rough, jagged way inside.
Andy gasped. All air had left his lungs – dragged on into the afterlife.
He gazed upon the crowd behind, the approaching gale of promised salvation, but saw nothing. Just the flimsy slum dwellers. The meek bodies, ravaged by an incurable illness. How would one ever fight a power as mighty as the Lungmen Guard with nothing but a few sharp rocks protruding from their body? Maybe a steel pipe, sometimes? What else was there? The few cloaked, indistinguishable shapes up front dropped their cloaks. And what was the act supposed to relay, exactly? What is the message? The skin tightly clinging to its ribs, the bare plains of gray and sadness, what is the sense of it all? Rocks breaking through the lungs and gleaming in the lamplight – what are you people trying to accomplish? What does dropping a cloak entail?! Why?!
One particularly boney and scrawny infected upfront approached. Andy ran his eyes through each individual hole poked between his ribs and laughed to himself (although the boot on his chest made it a little difficult). This? This is what's supposed to be toppling Lungmen? This is what's supposed to be ruling? A skeleton with skin messily stitched on top? Hair long and greasy, horns piled and broken? Oh, sure, raise your hand, man. Raise your hand, like that's gonna help you.
.
The infected raised their hand indeed. A flicker of warmth coursed through the air, the ground beneath his back, the boot on his chest, his bones, his heart, and his brain – his very own soul. A glowing ball of pure orange gathered by the meek's finger.
.
The guard atop Andy narrowed his visored gaze. Something bright, something glowing. Something approaching rapidly.
.
Andy blinked. In that split second, when his eyelids shielded him from all that was cruel and unjust, a blinding rampage of a myriad of warm colors lit his fleshy solitude ablaze. His eyes opened, and gazed upon the guard.
.
Rather, what was left of him.
.
Cut clean by the waist. Wound, cauterized instantly. Body from the stomach up – gone.
.
Smell of burnt meat.
.
Trembling step back from the righteous defenders – a rattle of armor plates.
.
Agitated screams of violent glee from behind – the infected union celebrated their first victory.
.
A loud thud. The legs bent under their weight, with no brain to keep them standing up straight. They fell next to the boy, immediately motionless. A dishonorable discharge. Rest well, soldier.
.
It struck him as well, to some extent. He couldn't move. Blood curdled and blocked off the flow in most of his veins, stopped the circulation of air in his system completely –
.
There was only the here and now. No future and no past.
.
Andy saw the L.G.D. exchanging hushed words. Two glances here, three radio-beeps there. Meaning? No meaning.
.
The approval of lethal force.
.
A bolt swished past his eyes – barely above, gracing him with its metal stomach, like those bombing run planes from all those years ago, there, in the snowy wastes. This one, however, flew past quickly – with no time given to praise its might, for there was none.
.
It flew, then stuck itself in the infected culprit. Where? Andy blinked again, the world lost its cloak of hazy blurriness. The eye. Clear, precise, head on – in the eye.
.
The caster fell. Croissant grasped his shoulder. Lizzy let out the softest of yelps.
.
Shields up, L.G.D.!
.
Weapons out!
.
Cloaks off, brothers and sisters!
.
Arts on display! Never to be ashamed of, ever again!
.
.
And let the clash of the week begin!
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
BONUS!
.
bonus snippet-oneshot. enjoy !
.
—
.
Lungmen, late at night. Permeated with the stench of sin and the pure essence of dream. What is a dream? In Lungmen, nothing but a flimsy human folly. No dreams exist in this wretched pit, reeking of tar. Sludge coats every street, and wrath cakes the hearts of its inhabitants – the worker ants keeping the machine up and running. What else to say about the city? It's many dwellers? The rich? The poor? The sick? The dying? And the dead? A ghost of the past had taken it to himself to venture deeper, to ask around about the notion. Who lives here? Why does it pain them to open their eyes in the morning and gaze at the buzzing neons, teeming with false hope?
The ghost found a target.
Nothing but a boy, albeit all grown up and tidy. Professional, he might think of himself. Alas, he is not. The ghost seeked a worthy soul to "interrogate", finding his target to be a bright, cheerful girl next door. One day, he stuck a camera and a microphone in her face, catching her both out of uniform and off duty.
When asked about the culprit, the cunning gun-angel of Penguin Logistics had a multitude of positive words to say.
"Andy? I meaaaaaaaaan…" The awkward laughs knew no end. Her hand reaches behind her head to untie the ponytail she never knew she had. "... It's just Andy, you know? There's not much to say about our Andy. He's a bit like a grasshopper. You know, free, unbound spirit, keeping it mellow most of the time… just buzzing about through life."
The ghost knew for a fact that Andrew couldn't be further from "a free spirit." When presented with the possibility of mischaracterizing her friend, the girl's optimistic smile dies down.
"... I mean… I mean, I think I'd know him a bit better." Her tone shifts. A person's natural reaction to being challenged – defensiveness. "He's content with life, I guess. That's all you need to know anyway, no?"
It's not. The ghost wants to dig deeper, so he does.
"... What do you mean "nail incident?" The girl looks visibly uncomfortable – her hand raising to grasp the loose fabric coating her elbow. "How do you know about that?"
The ghost stands motionless, microphone in hand. It asks questions, not answers them.
"... There was an accident, okay? He got mixed up in some bad biz, landed in a back alley with a volley of nails in his halo. Big deal." She scoffs. The annoyed tone comes from the prodding nature of the question, not the recollection of events. The ghost is sure of it. "We don't exactly have the most lax of rules here in Lungmen when it comes to gun control. So he got caught at a bad moment, some creeps made a freak out of him. But why are you asking?"
A freak? The ghost asks whether the girl thinks Andy as a freak.
"A f-... What? No! No, I never said that! He's not a freak. He's just a bit… a bit maladjusted after all that had happened to him, alright? He's not a freak. I don't think he's a freak."
Do other people think of him as a freak?
"No? No, I mean… How would I know? How do you expect me to know? I can't read people's minds. Texas? What about Texas–... No, Andy doesn't scare her. Nothing scares her, you know?" She chuckles. The mention of a more familiar face guides her to a state of ease. "She's just built like that. Yeah, kinda hard to crack her open. But hey, I'm getting there~!" Getting sidetracked. The ghost reminds her. "Andy, right. Why are you so hung up on him?"
The ghost raises a brow, then asks her the exact same question. Her face goes pale.
"... What do you mean?"
The long nights.
The early mornings.
The hours spent praying.
The sore knees.
Candles lit, incense laced breath.
Statues of Saints, crudely torn from marble.
She takes a step back. The door of her apartment doesn't budge.
"How…? I–... I don't have to answer that." She swallows the pain. "But-... I mean, it's my personal business, okay? I'm not answering that."
Fair. The ghost is a seasoned reporter. He lends her as much time as she needs.
"... It's… It's not that I'm hung up on him, okay? I just think of–... of THAT, from time to time. You probably know what, don't you?"
The guilt? The ghost asks whether it's the guilt of sending a dear friend off to the bowels of hell, or the knowledge of him having made it out purely because of the need to see her, nothing else.
"The what?" As white as her face had seemed before, it turns to a paler shade of paper-cut nothing. "... He did what?"
She knows it. The ghost nudges, a polite way of asking to "stop playing dumb."
"But-..." Words fail. The girl takes a moment and spends it in silence. "... I just don't think it's… it's healthy. For me, or him."
Silence. Far, far away, a Sankta boy and a Lupo woman stand in an apartment, staring at a dead body under a radiator. A yellow-edged sword sticks from its neck. "He's dead." The woman sums up. "No," The boy replies. "I touched him, he's warm."
"He's warm," She replies. "Because he's under the radiator."
The girl, however, keeps still.
"I don't want to sound cruel. I'm not a cruel person, you know that, don't you?"
The ghost nods. He knows the girl inside and out, knows that she holds no resentment for the boy. She likes pie and parties, not manipulation and heart-breaking.
"I'm… I'm trying to fix it all. I take care of him, I try to at least. We talk a lot, we– we have movie nights. That's something, right?"
She sounds unconvinced. As if the words weren't meant for the ghost, but for her own shaky self.
"We're good friends. It's just that I-... I feel bad, okay? I admit, I feel bad. I feel bad about him, I feel bad about letting him leave and-... and go there. I feel bad about it! Does it make me a terrible person? Is that what you wanted to hear? I do feel bad about making a shitty decision when I was thirteen, I admit it! And I can't find a way to come to terms with it. I can't find a way to cope! Guitar never worked out, Mostima, she–..."
Ring-ring. The ghost strikes gold. Silently, he nudges the microphone closer to her lips.
"... I don't want to talk about her."
Again. Nudge-nudge, Lem.
"Please stop."
Nudge.
"Stop."
Nudge-nudge…
"He left us, then she acted like she wanted to make it all better, only to leave me too. Okay? That's all. Please stop."
Her wish, his command. The ghost lowers the mic, albeit reluctant.
"And the worst part? The worst part is that I'm…" The girl turns away, and her lips unwillingly twist into a pained smile. She chuckles. "... I'm still… I still want her to come back someday. I want her to come back, and I want her to hold me again. I want her to be here again. Does that make me a loon? Sure does make me feel like one. Woman in love with someone who doesn't want her, is that a good enough headline for whatever you're doing?"
The ghost shakes his head. This wasn't about her, he reassures.
"Of course it's not." Her lungs deflate. "... But I'm making it all about myself, aren't I? You don't want to hear it."
He doesn't answer.
"... You want more stuff about Andy?"
No answer.
"Sure. Sure, I'll tell you about Andy. How about his dad? You know about him? Mister Raphael Reiff? My mom always used to say he was an irresponsible piece of shit. And that's coming from -her- of all people." A grin crosses her lips. "You know what he did? Lit himself on fire in front of the holy Notarial Hall. If it wasn't such a huge disrespect to the Law's will, I'd say it was kinda metal. But, well. What a looney bin, our Laterano is, huh?~"
No answer.
"How about him? The old him? Andrew Reiff, not "Ricketts", or whatever. How he used to dive into fountains for cash? Went to sleep hungry, crawled under my window early in the morning so I could drop him breakfast rolls? Yeah, that's the Andy I remember. Now? Now, though…?"
The joy disappears. The mere thought of the "Now-Andy" brings her pain.
"... He's not the same. I'm not the same, nothing is the same. Nothing will ever be the same. Can you write that? Can you conclude with that?"
The ghost nods. A fair ending to the tale. He thanks her for the interview and packs his bags.
"... Wait." She stops him right before departure. "... What was this, anyway? What was any of this? Why the interest?"
.
Again, the ghost doesn't answer.
.
The girl is lost. Alone and cold, loomed over by the cityscape.
.
She knows it's a silly whim, but the realization bares itself – glaringly. The past doesn't exist. Not anywhere, especially not here.
.
In Lungmen at night. The eater of dreams.
.
Devourer of hope.